His Private Chef

I was getting ready to start my new summer job today. Technically, it wasn't mine to begin with. My mom was the one who signed the six-week contract. I was just standing in for her.

I'd come home to spend my last summer before senior year with her. Graduation was just around the corner, and I could practically taste that culinary arts degree.

My love for cooking? That came from her. My mom, one of Los Angeles' most renowned chefs. She taught me everything I knew.

My father passed away when I was four. Since then, it's just been the two of us. She's my entire world. So, when I returned home and found her looking pale and worn out, I knew there was no way I'd let her take on a demanding job. No matter the personality involved.

She tried to convince me otherwise.

"I already signed the contract," she said, frail but persistent.

But I stood my ground. Her health mattered more than any client. You should've seen her, drained, barely able to stand.

"It's the Black family, Emily. You know how powerful they are. Just let me do it. I'll rest afterward, I promise."

She pleaded. But no matter how much emotion laced her voice, I wouldn't budge. I offered to take her place instead. After all, I grew up in kitchens, shadowing her through high-profile events. I could handle this.

She needed rest desperately. So, I sent her to Houston to recover at my aunt's place, far from the temptation of working again. I may or may not have threatened to never come home again if she refused.

Funny how the roles had reversed. I was parenting her now. She left last night, and the house had been painfully quiet since.

When I was done getting ready, I checked myself in the mirror. Black pants, a white blouse tucked in neatly, and my long black hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. I looked professional enough. I gave myself a small nod, grabbed my keys, and left.

The address led me to one of those exclusive neighborhoods only the rich and powerful call home. Wide, immaculate streets. Pristine hedges. Every corner whispered money.

Of course. Expected of the Black family. Titans of real estate, IT, hospitality, you name it. That surname could unlock any door in this city.

I presented my gate pass to the security guard, and he waved me through. The driveway seemed to stretch on forever, lined with perfectly trimmed hedges and lined with lantern-style street lights.

And then I saw it.

Holy moly.

A mansion stood at the end, so big it made my jaw slack. "This is the kind of money we're working for?" I muttered under my breath.

I parked beside a fleet of luxury cars, my modest ride looking comically out of place. The landscaping alone was enough to win awards. An expansive lawn, a tiered fountain in the center, and an elaborate garden straight out of a magazine.

I rang the bell. A man in his early fifties opened the door.

"Hi, I'm Emily. The new chef," I introduced myself.

He nodded once. "Come in. Mr. Liam will be down shortly. Wait in the kitchen."

I followed him through a foyer that belonged in a palace. Marble floors, gold-accented art frames, high vaulted ceilings. It was surreal. This wasn't just a home. It was a statement.

He left me at the kitchen, and I stood there for a moment, stunned.

Wow.

This kitchen was every chef's dream. Sleek marble countertops. High-end appliances. A massive island at the center. It looked like it had been pulled straight from a Pinterest board.

I was still in awe when a voice interrupted the silence.

"Well, who do we have here?"

Startled, I spun around, clutching my chest. "Oh my God, you scared me!"

There he stood.

Jason Black.

The Jason Black. The award-winning singer. Casual in a gray tracksuit, and somehow still looking like a photoshoot. Tousled brown hair, kind eyes, and a killer smile.

"You look even better in real life," I blurted before I could stop myself, and immediately regretted it.

He laughed. A real, loud, unfiltered laugh. "It hits different when the compliment comes from a beautiful woman."

I looked down, trying to hide the heat in my cheeks.

He walked to the fridge, grabbed a water bottle, and took a seat at the island. I joined him hesitantly.

"So," he asked, "what brings you here?"

"Work. I'm the new chef."

He raised a brow. "You look young."

"I'm filling in for my mom. She's sick. But I promise I'm qualified, grew up around kitchens and I'm studying culinary arts."

His face softened. "Sorry to hear that. Hope she gets better soon."

"Thanks," I said, relaxing slightly.

"You're really chill for a superstar," I added, smiling. "Big fan, by the way."

He grinned. "What's your name?"

"Emily."

"Well, Emily, you're cool too."

I liked him. Easygoing, funny, grounded. Nothing like the arrogant celebrity stereotype.

"But you know who's not so cool?" he said, lowering his voice.

I leaned in, amused. "Who?"

"My brother. Your new boss, Liam. He can be... intense. Don't take everything he says or does to heart."

That felt more like a warning than advice.

"Noted," I said cautiously.

We started chatting about his music, and I asked about the inspiration behind To All the Memories. He was mid-sentence when footsteps echoed from the hall.

He looked up. "Speak of the devil."

I turned.

Oh, damn.

Liam Black entered the room like he owned it. And maybe he did. Dressed in a tailored black Armani suit, he looked straight out of a GQ spread. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. His brown eyes scanned the room, unreadable. His scent hit me-woodsy, fresh, confident.

Without saying a word, he walked to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and drank.

"He's rude," I whispered to Jason.

Jason chuckled under his breath.

"Good morning, dear brother," Jason said pointedly. "Your chef is here."

Liam finished his water, turned slightly, and nodded once at his brother "Jay."

Then those eyes fell on me.

He didn't say a word. Just stared. I couldn't read his expression. Disapproval? Curiosity? Annoyance?

One thing was clear.

This summer just got a whole lot more complicated...